That Bad Feeling You Have About This
by Troll Princess
Summary: BtVS/AtS Xover. Cordelia's moving on to another plane of existence. Spike's regaining his soul. As if things couldn't get any weirder, their problems double after their destinies intertwine.


**Author:** Troll Princess   
  
**Title:** That Bad Feeling You Have About This   
  
**Spoilers:** Up to and including "Tomorrow" in the Angelverse and "Two to Go" and "Grave" in the Buffyverse.   
  
**Rating:** Let's say R and play it safe.   
  
**Disclaimer:** The gang at Mutant Enemy has all the rights and control over the Angel and Buffyverses. May God have mercy on their poor, deluded souls … and maybe up their meds.   
  
**Author's note:** So I have seen the finales. And I have had story ideas. I'd like to take this opportunity to apologize profusely to the multitude of characters in the original novel I'm in the process of writing, since I am now about to get involved in writing this story. That means that whatever subreality my own personal characters are living in, they're now going to spend a hell of a lot of time shooting pool and eating double-fried onion rings when they should be saving the freaking world over and over again. Sorry, gang. I'll buy the first round when I get a chance, 'kay?   
  
**Author's note, part two:** I apologize for any mistakes in canon I might make in this story. I missed a couple of the last episodes of Buffy because ... well, they were depressing me and I'm depressed enough as it is.   
  
**Son of Author's Note:** I also apologize for any resemblance whatsoever to the plot of "Ghost in the Shell." I swear, I don't try to make my season's-end stories like this. Seriously. (Trust me, you'll get where I'm coming from eventually.)   
  
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That Bad Feeling You Have About This   
By Troll Princess   
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** Chapter One - Learning to Crawl **   
  


_"Very well. You can have your soul back."_   
  


It's strange, the way some things just don't occur to you until it's too late, like nicking the wrong brand of fags or getting shagged in the wrong bloody place at the entirely wrong bloody time not a few feet away from a video camera. The same went for asking for a soul, something that Spike was fairly positive he hadn't even cracked wise about once during the entire test -- a new record for him, if he wasn't mistaken.   
  


Not that he could remember right then and there. Not through the pain.   
  


The wail that spilled past his lips felt as if it was being ripped from the center of his heart, the demon's touch on him a frigid, steely hook that birthed a new kind of misery in the depths of his soul. His back arched as a frission of agony opened from the tips of his toes to the spiked ends of his bleached-blond locks, tearing him to pieces and scattering them to the winds. For a split second, Spike actually found himself having a shot of respect -- bloody hell, _respect_ of all things -- for the poof, who, if he'd gone through this sort of pain twice, deserved at least a pint or two the next time Spike saw him. Maybe a whole bloody keg of the stuff, Spike absently thought as the light poured from him --   
  


**-- as she poured into the light --**   
  


-- and even past the stark stench of his own burned flesh and the sticky-sweet perfume of his spilled blood, Spike had enough brain cells not preoccupied with the worst suffering he'd ever gone through to whisper, "Oh, God," in an almost ceremonial chant.   
  


Heh. Like God gave a ruddy damn about him.   
  


And for the first time in a long time, since way back when he'd had a heartbeat and lung capacity and a slightly lower body count to his name, the thought of God not giving a fuck tore him to shreds inside.   
  


But it would be all right. Something inside of him --   
  


**-- I know somehow it's all gonna be alright --**   
  


-- told him that, whispered it in soft, soothing tones as it filled him with delicious warmth. Sorta like nuking a bit of blood in the Watcher's "Kiss the Librarian" mug, Spike's brain cells managed to squeeze out, and he very nearly laughed in a hysterical hyena yowl at that.   
  


And then it was over with. Pain all gone. Nothing up my sleeve, and presto. No more ouchies. Next up was Band-Aid time, then, wasn't it?   
  


The demon's hand slipped from his chest, and Spike's last prop for support gone, he pooled into a pale, half-naked heap on the cave's chilled dirt floor.   
  


"There. It is done. You are exactly what you were." And somewhere in the darkness past Spike's closed eyelids, the demon laughed, a low rumble that sounded like boulders in a landslide banging against one another.   
  


An instant later, he vanished, a mini-vacuum sweeping air from the room as he went, and the cool rush of breeze for just that short moment in time elicited a grateful groan from Spike's exhausted body.   
  


What followed was blissful silence, a comfortable embrace of dead air, and in Spike's mind, the cave shifted from an annoying site of endurance against all odds to a natural sensory deprivation chamber. Warm past the cold, snapping draft, silent past the distant sounds of the real African world not as far away from his as he'd have liked. And what felt like a little death (and not the good kind, mind you), what felt like a real, honest-to-fuck deading --   
  


**-- It's not the end. It's the beginning. --**   
  


-- suddenly felt like the weirdest of rebirths.   
  


But then the emotions came, even stronger than they'd been when he'd just been Evil Bad Spike With the Chip Just Slightly Higher Then His Shoulder. So when the bright pale coloring faded from his hair, when the healthy pallor returned to his skin (at least somewhat ), he didn't pay attention to it in the least. Couldn't pay attention to anything, not past the guilt.   
  


Not even the sudden rush of air into once dead lungs, or the heartbeat anxiously racing to new life in his ears.   
  


*****

  
  


_"Just say yes."   
  
_

"I already have."   
  


Well, that's that, Cordy thought as she drifted higher and higher into the air, a settled satisfaction almost weighing her down.   
  


She hadn't known where that had come from, that feeling that she'd always known what was going to happen, that she was going to get sucked up into a bright white and gold light sort of like a loose penny into an extremely fancy vacuum cleaner. But there it was, hanging out inside her head and slapping high-fives with all the loose brain cells rolling around in there.   
  


Her fingertips grazing the soft ivory silk of her dress, Cordy closed her eyes to the light, savoring the _rightness_ of all of this, how even though she loved Angel --   
  


**-- What are you going to do with him anyway? --   
  
**

-- I'm thinking maybe dinner and a movie. I don't want to rush into anything. I've been hurt, y'know.   
  


-- even so, she was meant to do this.   
  


Cordy's skin tingled as she felt herself dissolve, felt herself fall into so many insignificant particles of light and air that buzzed into the glow above her in a flurry of activity. The swarm that was Cordelia escaped this reality and, in a flash, joined another, and a whirlwind of essense and body spun her back into existence, whole and perfect.   
  


"Whoa," she said quietly, still a little stunned by what had gone on. Only twenty-four hours earlier, she'd been helping Angel with his Connor problems, living with Groo and glowing occasionally. But _now_, she thought, and she glanced skyward as if she'd see that heavenly ball of energy still there. "That was some ride," she whispered. "And I didn't even have to stand in line or anything."   
  


She lowered her gaze, ran her fingers through her hair the same way Angel did as if it would steady nerves trained in the past few years to be on full alert, then took in her surroundings.   
  


So, this was the other plane of existence that higher beings hung out in. Hmm. It was a few square feet smaller than she'd thought it'd be, wasn't it?   
  


But still, wow. Big, huge, smoking _wow_.   
  


What surrounded her was an opulent palatial whozit, a mystical place that seemed to go on forever even though the ballroom or living room or whatever the hell it is couldn't possibly be that big. And Cordy knew she had Xander to thank for the useless trivia when she laughed in spite of herself and blurted out, "Oh, my God. I've been wished into a TARDIS."   
  


Furniture and decorations were everywhere and nowhere, sofas scattered here and there like dice in play, tables hidden beneath trays of cheesecake and junk food and the like that Cordy instinctively knew woouldn't be fattening in this realm. And every so often, walls peppered with doors of every shape and size, doors that she knew without opening them led to neverending paradise, magical worlds of imagined beauties. Wherever she was, what mystical level of existence she'd reached, Cordy was pretty sure it was some form of paradise. Only paradise would have suede couches that probably didn't even stain and ... ooo, those white chocolate Santa thingies she loved so much.   
  


The only thing missing was her best friend, she realized, and a piece of her heart broke in spite of herself.   
  


"Thank heavens you're back," she heard, the voice breaking through the calming silence.   
  


Cordelia whirled around at the gentle yet grateful British accent rising up behind her, and before she knew it, a pair of lean male arms encased in a thick layer of tweed that'd even make Giles grimace snaked around her and pulled her into the most welcome of hugs. "Well, hello to you, too," she said with a nervous laugh, brown-eyes gaze darting around as she searched in vain for the hidden camera and the giggling crew that went with it.   
  


Nerves and suspicions didn't matter, though, not then. Only a second later, she wrapped her arms tight around the stranger and squeezed back, a sensation of finally coming home dousing her in warm familiarity. She burrowed her face in the curve of the stranger's neck, taking in an intoxicating blend of cloves and hot chocolate, and wished to God she could remember this man, an unknown creature she suddenly felt as if she'd missed for a very long time.   
  


After way too short a time by Cordy's standards, he started to disengage, and Cordelia bent her head and sniffled back tears she wasn't sure she'd ever cry again as he said in that friendly, relieved voice of his, "I never thought you'd return. I was rather starting to believe you'd become lost and never find your way back to us."   
  


She cleared her throat, and the words "Yeah, well, I'm not exactly sure --" spilled from her lips before she caught a glimpse of the man before her and promptly gasped. Even past soft curls the same color as light brown sugar and the antique spectacles, it wasn't hard to miss. Hell, all he needed was a black leather duster and a bottle of Chlorox and he'd be --   
  


Oh, God.   
  


Cordy pulled away, and her voice was a squeak when she said, "Spi--"   
  


No, that's not right, she thought, even before his brow furrowed and he tilted his head in something resembling mild annoyance. And it struck her like a lightning bolt, a mental smack upside the head that dropped her jaw and widened her eyes to huge brown pools quivering with shock.   
  


No, not Spike. Never Spike. Not totally, anyway. But if he wasn't Spike, then he must be --   
  


"Oh, my God," she blurted out in a semi-screech. "William?!"   
  


*****

  
  


**Bride of Author's Note:** Chapter Two is almost done and should be up tomorrow. 


End file.
